Summary, disclaimer, etc. in Chapter 1.
R.E.M.'s lyrics belong to them, not me.
WARNING: Before you read this, please be advised that the next chapter will be rated M for explicit sexual content. This chapter is still rated T. If you choose to read this chapter and don't like where you think it's going, bail out now. Because it's going there. House isn't going to realize in the middle of things that he's meant for someone else; it's going all the way there. If anything at all about House/Stacy bothers you, please don't read any further. This chapter and the chapter to follow are the reason I said in chapter 1 that I didn't think many people would like this fic. It's not going to be straight House/Stacy, no one's riding off into the sunset, and I don't think this would happen on the show, hence the AU tag, but it's more House/Stacy than House/anyone else, so please be advised. If you choose to read it and you don't like it, I can't be held responsible for your informed choice, so please don't complain about something you chose to do.
In answer to a question a few people posed, yes, that part about Cameron was deliberate (and so is the part in this chapter) because I feel it's in keeping with canon. (I know, it's an AU fic that defies canon in its very inception, but blah, I'm not interested in arguing about canon/AU. It's there because I wanted to put it there.) Read into it what you will; it's not going any further than these two or three brief mentions.
Chapter 3: Red Sky at Night
Keys cut, three for the price of one
Nothing's free but guaranteed for a lifetime's use
I've changed the locks
And you can't have one
Hey love, look into your glovebox heart
What is there for me inside? This love is tired
I've changed the locks. Have I misplaced you?
Have we lost our minds?
Will this never end?
It could depend on your take
You, me, we used to be on fire
If keys are all that stand between,
Can I throw in the ring?
No gasoline
Just fuck me kitten
You are wild and I'm in your possession
Nothing's free, so, fuck me kitten
I'm in your possession
So, fuck me kitten
—R.E.M. "Star Me Kitten"
House stared at the ceiling.
He'd been ready to drop when he finally got home just after lunch. Driving on icy roads without shaking out the stiffness of a few hours' sleep in Wilson's car hadn't been the best medicine for an appendage that hated cold weather and long periods of stillness. Instead he'd swallowed another Vicodin and sat down at the piano. Emotions took it out of him worse than any stretch on his feet.
He'd noodled for a long time. Something from Beethoven's uber-depressed period into a sarcastic vaudeville melody into a dissonant repetition that would've made even Philip Glass scratch his eyes out into a jaunty five finger exercise into a light Chopin into a blues melody that evolved into a jazz improvisation and ending on an off-key "All You Need is Love" with a few Beethovian minor chords to close the piece.
Strange. He hadn't touched the instrument for more than five minutes since the night Cameron quit.
In a way, he longed for the black and white keys to shed their meaning of notes, scales, chords, modes, styles, histories, and feelings and become only what they appeared to be: black and white keys. He couldn't remember a time when he'd seen only black and white keys. But he could remember when the pedals were just pedals and he didn't structure his phrases according to how long he could press down on the right-most pedal.
He'd gotten up, feeling lighter, scrounged some cold pizza and settled down to watch whatever sporting event presented itself. An old rugby match on the Sports International channel: better than he'd expected. Ice skating had followed and he'd quickly changed the channel. The Wizard of Oz. Then the local news had come on and leaked into a rerun of Becker. By then, his attention was fixed on the ceiling.
A Vicodin after the rugby match and another before the local news, in addition to a lengthy sojourn on his back with his leg properly supported, had calmed him. He was nearly asleep, comfortable with his mood elevated slightly by hydrocodone, when someone knocked clearly and distinctly on his door.
Of course he knew who it was. Her cell phone was waiting on the coffee table next to him. Of course she'd be back.
He turned the television off, got up slowly, and limped to the door without bothering with his cane. Didn't need it. Not for this. Though what he was expecting exactly, he couldn't say.
"Hi…Stacy…come in."
She entered in a slow yet self-confident manner, coat folded over her locked arms.
She took in the living room in one sweep.
"Nice place," she said casually.
It smelled so much like him, his spicy, tangy scent. It drove her wild.
House watched her silently: he'd seen that. She was willing to let herself get in deep tonight.
Their eyes met and they exchanged a quick conversation: 'would she be staying long?' 'yes, she would' 'that was fine but he wouldn't be taking her coat' 'touché.'
"You got your cross back," House noticed.
His expression became just barely distasteful, his tone just barely bitter. He thought he hid the contempt well.
"All better?"
But of course she'd seen it.
"I didn't come over here to talk about Mark," she said.
But she didn't step forward or unfold her arms yet.
House was silent, waiting for a real answer.
Stacy sighed, shoulders drooping. "Silent treatment."
The corner of House's mouth quirked with the brief smile that sometimes accompanies memory.
"Old favorite," he said.
"I never knew you'd be so good at it," she said.
And now she stepped forward. Now she unfolded her arms. Now she put her coat down. Where? It didn't matter where.
House didn't move.
She offered him the knapsack. "Trade you."
He said nothing, taking the two steps to the coffee table to retrieve her phone and two steps back. He offered it wordlessly.
"Did I get any calls?" Stacy asked as she took the phone.
Her voice was nervous. She was nervous. She was making conversation. And she was expecting something. They were lovers again, right now, in this time and place. Would it last? Did she want it to last? Did he want it to? All of these questions pooled in his eyes. He didn't know how else to ask them.
The taste of her on his lips last night. Her hands on his chest, around his shoulders, pulling him closer. God yes he wanted it.
But still he said nothing.
"Are you going to give me the tour or do I have to wander around unguided?" she asked, again nervous, but this time predatory too.
Are we going to do this? her eyes asked. I want to. Show me where you sleep now. I'm ready.
He answered with his body, limping toward the kitchen.
"Messy as always," she said. Smiling, with that knowing, predatory smile, she said that when in fact his kitchen was clean—no, not clean. It was empty.
She turned to face him, God she was so close again, and pushed him gently against the refrigerator, her body against his now, close, thigh grinding gently against his groin, and kissed him like she meant it. He kissed back, pushing against her. Weight. Counterweight. She was serious. Was he serious? He was serious right now about kissing her back.
They found a rough, needy rhythm and then came to a mutual stop. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction and anticipation: she had him. He shuddered. He loved it when she was aggressive.
She stepped back. Shall we continue?
The tour?
Of course.
Sure.
He ducked out of the kitchen down the hall and flipped a throwaway gesture toward the bathroom, going toward his spare room. She stopped following him and went into the bathroom, turning the light on and inspecting it.
She leaned against the doorframe while he watched her.
"You know, I was a little surprised when I found out you sent your underlings to Short Hills instead of going yourself," she said.
He was silent for a moment. He put a hand out to the wall to steady himself while he stood.
"No you weren't," he retorted. He searched her face, her eyes. "They loved the cookies, by the way."
"They didn't share?" she asked casually with just a little pout on his behalf.
"I don't normally eat things that come out of Chase's pocket."
There was laughter in her smile.
"You have changed," she observed.
She left the light on and walked past the door to the spare room and past him, interested in what was at the end of the hall.
The sway of her hips as she glided past him. He had no questions now.
She paused at the door, taking in the room.
"When did you become neat?" she asked, her tone not a little disparaging, but it was part of an old pattern.
"When tripping over something became an issue," he said, shouldering past her.
He sat down on the bed, feeling somewhat naked because he'd left his cane in the living room. He knew he wouldn't need it…but what if he did?
She sat next to him on the bed and turned his face toward her for a kiss. It was gentle, lingering, loving. There was no hurry. It was going to happen but they had all night to enjoy it. No need to rush.
They parted, inches away from each other. Her hand was still on his cheek.
"I haven't slept," he said.
"You never sleep," she countered.
He inclined his head; she was right.
She stood up and offered him her hand. He took it and she pulled him in for a serious kiss.
Long, luxurious—he hadn't made out with anyone since the last time he made out with her. It was the same but it was also different. He felt her doing things that were foreign to him for the first minute; things she'd learned he liked. Him. Mark. Not him, Greg.
He didn't have any foreign tricks for her and soon she remembered everything he wanted and he was living in the moment furiously, passionately, for once not worrying about the next moment to come. But that wasn't who he was. Not now. Not then.
"Wait," he said breathlessly, pulling away until only their foreheads were touching, looking down at her, her looking up at him. "I'm a little drunk."
Stacy smiled the drunk smile of sexual satiation. "You weren't last night," she pointed out.
She leaned in to kiss him again and he kissed back because it was so good to kiss back.
He pulled away again. "But I am now."
It was a lie, but he needed it to be out there before he went any further.
"You never let that stop you before," Stacy said.
She kissed him again, and he kissed back, but then she felt him hesitate.
"Greg, I know you want this," she said. She kissed him quickly and looked up. "Just…let it happen."
He searched her eyes and face again. All he saw reflected back was himself: raw need for him and only him. And he could see his own reflection in her eyes: he was flushed, he was serious, he was committed. Let it happen, her eyes told him. Let it happen because you want it to happen.
And she was right. He did want it to happen.
They kissed again, seriously, voraciously, and her hands were off of him and busy unbuttoning her blouse. He took the cue and worked on getting his own shirt off.
No questions now as their mouths met hungrily, hands everywhere like two horny teenagers. This was happening. This was happening right now.